Shinigami Rising
by Oakwood
Summary: What do Duo's nightmares mean? Why are there demons dancing in the ruins of a church? WARNINGS: Duo's potty mouth, mature themes


Updated with the new system in mind, and a snazzy new title.  
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PLEASE R & R!!!** This is VERY MUCH a work-in-progress. I don't feel I've quite gotten a grasp on the humor in Duo's personality in this piece, it seems a bit forced to me in places. I also want to know if the mild symbolism I'm using in here works, or if it's confusing. HELP!!!  
  
**WARNINGS**: PG-13: Duo has a potty mouth, mature themes, and symbolism (ack).  
  


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**Shinigami Rising  
**Oakwood  
  
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_You look just like a girl with all that hair.   
  
Duo couldn't move. His wrists were pinned under a pair of sharp knees. Duo tightened the muscles in his forearms and pushed upward, using the ground and his elbows like a lever. The offending legs inched off the ground .  
  
The boy just chuckled and dropped into a sitting position on Duo's chest. You pretty strong for a sissy.  
  
Duo coughed, struggling under the mass of humanity crushing his chest. When he had raked enough air into his lungs to take a deep breath, he arched his back and threw his weight forward, praying for enough momentum to dislodge the boy, or at least get a clear shot at that broad, smiling face.  
  
The boy laughed, riding out Duo's struggles as though he were a stubborn mule. Duo had managed to free one of his arms though, and he punched his fist face-ward, packing as much force behind it as he could muster. But the angle was awkward, and the intended blow arched too far left of its target. The boy caught his fist in mid-air, and brought it slamming down into the pavement above his head.  
  
A grinning face hovered inches above Duo's own, filling his vision. He turned his face away, and felt the blood rising in his ears. His knuckles ached where they had been smashed into the ground, and tears stung behind his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. No, **NO CRYING**!  
  
You look just like a girl. The steamy breath on his cheek smelled like exhaust fumes. Can you act like one?  
  
Duo shut his eyes.  
  
a familiar voice called.  
  
His eyes snapped open.  
  
it called again.  
  
With a movement so quick, he didn't know he had done it until a few seconds later, Duo whipped his head towards his attacker, and rammed the crown of his skull forward. The boy screamed, and the pressure on Duo's chest was suddenly released. He scrambled to his feet, tears streaming down his cheeks. Father Maxwell! he screamed, running towards the voice. FATHER MAXWELL!  
  
He plowed ahead, towards the sun at the end of the alleyway. But something was wrong. The light was growing, expanding like a balloon. He froze. He couldn't go back to the alley where the boy was crying, oozing sticky red onto the cement from a flattened nose; he couldn't go forward towards the ever increasing brightness. But he had to do something, fast. The light was pouring down the alley now, and the heat from it seared the inside of his nose. Duo did the only thing he could think of: he covered his eyes. A blast of air hit him, engulfing him in volcano heat. He could feel the light pulsing against him. The hair on his arms stood on end, and began smoldering. Charcoal and ash filled his lungs. He felt like he was baking, as though any minute his skin would brown and crisp, and crackle open at the edges like an over-cooked turkey. His eyes began to burn against his eyelids. Then, there was a horrible sucking like the air around him were being drained into space. It pulled at him, sweeping his hair over his shoulders. Just as it screamed to a fevered climax, straining so hard on his ears that Duo thought they would burst, it stopped. Silence and dark engulfed him.   
  
He peeked over the tops of his fingers. The light had vaporized the street in front of him, and he was standing on a ledge with half of L-2 yawning below him. Huge black clouds swallowed the fire-licked buildings and belched towards the sky. He watched as the church--**his** church's steeple crumbled in on itself, ravaged by the unrelenting heat. Something was dancing in the flames. Duo rubbed his eyes and looked again. They were -- **demons**. Leathery skin strained gauntly over their bony wings, and ash gray scales covered them from bulging eyes to skinny tail. They convulsed and gyrated in the destruction, eyes reflecting the glow of the fire.  
  
There was urgency in the voice now. Panic.  
  
He tried to yell out to him, but only a thin wisp of smoke trailed out of his mouth. His voice was gone, burnt up in the blast. A sudden wind was pushing the smoke away from the buildings, fanning the flames into the night sky. That's when he saw it. Towering hundreds of feet above the wreckage: glowing white with the heat, gleaming, holding a scythe that seemed to be made out of the fire itself. Enormous, black wings fanned out from its back, like a metal bat's, and under the horned samurai helmet two glowing, green eyes pierced Duo's soul.  
  
He screamed.  
  
_Duo Maxwell scrambled out of his bed covers and leaped onto the floor. Father Maxwell! His eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, trying to penetrate the darkness. No answer. Green light! There was green light. Green eyes! Was it those green eyes? No. No, it was the alarm clock, the glowing numbers on his alarm clock. _Oh God,_ he thought. he sat down on the edge of his bed and ran his fingers through his damp bangs. _It was just a dream._ His face felt wet, and he wiped it dry with his hand. Why were his eyes so watery? Had he been crying?   
  
His hand went up to the gold chain around his neck, and he pulled the crucifix out from under his tank top. He kissed it. It was always the same; every time he had a nightmare, he kissed the cross Father Maxwell had given him like he used to as a boy. But, he didn't believe in God. No God would let happen what he had seen in his fifteen years. Not without protecting His children. Not without punishing the wicked. _Like **you** punish them, Shinigami?_  
  
His room felt too stuffy. Duo rolled off of the bed and crossed to the window in two strides. He tore the curtains open, desperate for some fresh air. He tried to pull up the window, but it wouldn't open. he hissed, putting his shoulder under the frame and trying to force it. Open up you God damn, price of crap, or I will open you with my fist!  
  
You might want to try unlatching it.  
  
Duo jumped and turned around in one movement, his hands rolling into fists, and his arms raised in a fighting stance instinctively.   
  
Moonlight washed through the window, spilling across the floor of his room, and falling on a white robed figure standing in the door frame. It took him a moment to recognize the face. he breathed lowering his arms and clutching at his chest. With the moonlight reflecting off Quatre's pale skin and platinum hair, the Sandrock pilot had looked like . . . _Like what, Maxwell? An angel? Hallelu-yah, and Praise the Lord! You're an idiot! _You scared the sweet, ever-loving Jesus out of me. Duo leaned heavily on the window frame.   
  
I'm sorry, he said. I heard you talking and I thought something might be wrong. I didn't mean to disturb you. He turned to close the door.   
  
Duo bound across the room, startling Quatre. Don't--I mean, uh, since we're both up and all, why don't you come in? Unless you're headed back to bed or something. Duo glanced down at the cup of tea in the Arabian's hand. Guess not. C'mon in, Q-ster.  
  
Quatre walked into the room, and sat down in the straight-backed chair across from Duo's bed.  
  
Duo flopped on his bed, and clicked on the small lamp on his nightstand. He glanced at the alarm clock. 5:30? What the Hell are we doing awake at this . . . he stopped in mid sentence. He had seen some of his fellow pilots at their all time worst: beaten, bruised, bloodied, broken, despondent. Hell, he had even seen Heero jump out of a building, but he had never seen Quatre like this. His skin was ashen, and the bags under his eyes made his face look like it was cast in shadows. His eyes . . . Those eyes that were usually shining full of hope and kindness gazed dully at him under a mat of blonde hair. he said, you look like shit.  
  
Quatre fiddled with the handle of his teacup. I haven't been sleeping, he said. Not for a couple of nights now. He took a short sip and Duo a sidelong glance. I've been hearing . . . he paused. I keep hearing voices. He sighed. Every time I start to drift off to sleep, I can hear them screaming. All the people I've killed. They're all begging me to stop. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall behind him. His lips pulled into a thin smile. A by-product of the Wing Zero I suppose, or Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. That's what Rashid thinks it is. He leaned forward to take another sip of his tea. At least, I hope that's what it is.   
Duo nodded.  
  
I'm sorry, Duo. he said. You wanted to talk didn't you?   
  
Who me? Duo waved his hand about. What gives you that idea? What would I want to talk about? A burning church surrounded by dancing demons pushed its way into his mind.  
  
He smiled, looking a bit more like his own self. You're never up this early, and if you are, it's death at the hands of Deathscythe if anyone talks to you.  
  
_Damn! _ He wasn't sure he wanted to talk -- he just didn't want to be alone. Duo sighed. Of all the people he knew, Quatre was the best to tell about his dream. He might even know what the blasted thing meant. But he'd never told anyone about his dreams, not since Sister Helen and Father Maxwell died. He touched his crucifix with the tips of his fingers. _Father Maxwell was calling him. . .   
  
_We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Quatre said. We could go downstairs and make another pot of tea. Mine's gone cold anyway.  
  
No. No, that's all right. He kicked his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. He tried to look casual. I just had a nightmare, that's all.  
  
A nightmare? What was it about?  
  
Duo shrugged. Not much. Just an memory. An old one from back when I was a kid, when I was living at the church. Well, mostly a memory. He furrowed his brow. It got -- weird at the end.  
  
Do you want to talk about it?  
  
Duo looked up at him. He looked concerned; he'd pushed the tangled hair off his face, and sat up straight. His eyes looked brighter, almost normal. I got picked on a lot, when I was younger. You know? Duo said. I was little then too, and I never cut my hair. He grinned. It's not like there are whole lot of barber shops for street kids. Quatre smiled. Well, I got called girly, sissy a lot. Stuff like that. No big thing, but it started bunches of fights. I mostly handled myself, though. I was meant to be a scrapper, I guess. But there was this one time, this one time that this big, I mean he was like a steroid popping huge kid kept calling me a girl. Well, like I said, I was living in the church around then. Father Maxwell didn't like me fighting, and I got caught punching some kid like two days earlier. He fiddled with the tip of his cross. So I ignored this kid just like the Father told me too. I guess this guy didn't like being ignored. He came up and slugged me one good. He **walloped** me. He shook his head. I'd been hit before that. I mean, I'd had the shit beat out of me way before that, but damn. I swear to you Quatre, I had never been hit so hard in my life. It hurt like Hell. Scared the shit out of me too. I didn't know one person could have so much power stored up in them. Especially a kid. Duo smirked. So I ran. I hauled my skinny, American ass as fast as I could. Of course, he had to be fast for a big kid too. He ended up cornering me in an alley.  
  
What happened?  
  
Nothing. Nothing much. He had me pinned down at one point, and almost broke my damn knuckles when I tried to punch him. But right about when things were going to get serious, I heard Father Maxwell calling me. I was so scared he wasn't going to find me, I ended up breaking the kid's nose to get away. Duo brushed the bangs out of his eyes and paused. He screamed. God, did he scream! I'd never hurt anybody that badly before. He looked down at his hands; he turned them over, his eyes following the scars on his knuckles. But, if I hadn't gotten away . . . Well, let's just say it wouldn't have been pleasant.  
  
Quatre nodded.  
  
I never told Father Maxwell. Not about what almost happened. Not about what I did. I think he knew anyway. But he never said anything. I guess he figured I'd tell him when I was ready. He stopped, lost in thought. Is it hot in here? Duo got up and crossed over to the window, making sure to unlatch it, and slid it open.   
  
The sun was starting to peep over the horizon. There was lots I didn't tell him. He said looking out the window, letting the morning breeze cool his face. I felt so damn lucky that they let me stay, I mean . . . It was a church, and here I was always fighting, always causing some sort of trouble. Sun beams were starting to reflect off the rows of roof tops. Everything was so still. Not even the birds were up yet. Duo wondered how much longer they would be in this safe house, how much longer he could wake up to sunrises. The cease-fire couldn't last forever. And despite whatever claims it was making this week, the Romefeller Organization wouldn't keep the peace for long. Soon he would be fighting again. Soon more buildings would be in flames with demons dancing in the corners, at the hands of Shinigami. I haven't changed much.  
  
He turned around to look at Quatre. He had fallen asleep. One hand was propping up his head, the other was still clutching a half empty teacup. His face looked peaceful. In fact, Duo swore he saw a smile playing on the Arabian's lips.  
  
He chuckled to himself, and pulled the blanket off of his bed. Gingerly, he took the teacup out of Quatre's fingers and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He closed the curtains on the spreading light, and unplugged the alarm clock. G'night Quatre, he said. Thanks for listening. He was leaving the room when he added, Sweet dreams, like Sister Helen used to, and he closed the door silently behind him.  
  



End file.
